Never Let It Go
by Eileen1
Summary: A Posse Fanfic. A betrayal, Broadway, Brooky and Prostitution. Even a rare cameo by Dutchy. Go figure. Language, Sexual situations.


Never Let It Go NARRATOR: Spot's hair shone in the mid-afternoon light, glistening with grease and sweat. He had been working on the train tracks again--a second job, after selling papes. It was man's work, a respectable trade. Something he could bring home to Brooky without shame. Seven hours a day, long, tedious hours with thirty big, lumbering brutes, nameless as far as he could tell, but it was worth it. SPOT: "C'man--mon. C'mon!" yelled Dutchy. I would have chastised him had I not been out of breath, practically snapping under a load of stakes that had just been thrown at me by Charlie, our supervisor. Dutchy had no business talking back to me. However, he had landed me this job when I needed more than just being a newsie.  
More. I never thought about that word before I met Brooky. But suddenly, ever since we were together (before, even)... more ways to support, love, be with her... it was all I thought about.  
I laughed at Dutchy's seeming speech impediment and readjusted the heavy load cutting into my spine. That night I took 5th Avenue home. Well, 5th Avenue doesn't lead to my home- -it leads to ritz and lights and shop windows. You can follow 5th to Broadway and find furs or strikes or girls. I could see Broadway's signs blazing. A reckless daring seized me. I plunged forward, away from our simple home. I was fed up. I needed less, not more. "Hey, stranga', out fah the night?" a breathy voice lulled me as I reached the famous avenue. Brooky will wonder.--Let her wonder then.--Go home, Spot. Fuck off. "Not if you've got some place I can stay in..." I turned and found a thin Evelyn Nesbit look-alike batting her eyelashes, bathing in a dim streetlight. "I think we could work that out, baby..." NARRATOR: Brooklyn was pacing, smoking one of Spot's hand-rolled cigarettes, cursing to herself.  
"Find him!" she yelled at the whitewashed walls. A tear escaped her and fell to the floor. The seventh floor, stacked like shoeboxes, she only one in a hundred-some shoebox occupants up at this hour, worried sick. It was a very long walk home. But not this long.  
Brooky coughed and put out the cigarette. She was not a smoker. Throwing it out the window, she grabbed her coat and flew down the fire escape.  
She arrived at the Brooklyn LH in a frenzy of lack of sleep and tears, which were now rolling freely onto her overcoat. Was he okay? Hurt? Spot had never done this to her-- oh, who was she to say he was doing this to her...?  
Brooklyn flung open the door, narrowly avoiding hitting Faer in the face. She had appeared to be just locking it.  
"Nice to see you too, dear," Faer said sarcastically before catching sight of the other girl's face. "What's wrong? Has something happened? Is it Spot? What's he done? C'mere..."  
"His 1st week on the job... shoulda... 7 o'clock... worried like hell... why?"  
Brooky put her face in her hands. Dutchy had entered and confirmed in a dark voice that Spot had indeed left work at the correct time that day.  
"Don't worry, Brooky. We'll find him." With that, Dutchy and Faer were out the door, leaving Brooklyn with a soaked coat and little hope. SPOT: She was kissing me before I could have second thoughts, pinning me against the fancy brick wall behind us, pulling me into an alley. I was numb, but I felt free; I didn't have any burdens, no responsibilities, no loves-- I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Wassername?" "Hmm?" She was going for my neck now. I freed myself from her grasp and repeated, "What's your name?" "I--I--" She seemed unfocused or wary to tell me, instead opting to reattach herself to my neck... collarbone... chest...  
We were climbing a fire escape to her apartment, kissing in intervals between steps. What are you doing, Spot? About to have a girl whose name you don't even know?  
The beauty pulled me into her apartment, fumbling with a match. She pulled away from me for a minute to light a lantern, and I caught a glimpse of her face, illuminated in the flame. A gasp escaped my lips. I'd never be warm again...  
"Irish...?" My voice cracked and died. NARRATOR: "Where we goin' firs'?" Faer had a slur about her when she was worried. Dutchy thought about it for a moment. Faer could hear his intuition--if that's possible--ticking.  
"Irish's place."  
"Wha--why?" She was confused, but she followed the handsome blond boy anyway.  
"Irish is--um--out a lot at night," Dutchy said over his shoulder, looking anxious. They took the front door and went up eight floors to Irish's place. On the fifth, they heard panting behind them.  
"Wait." Brooklyn keeled over, slightly more composed than before, catching her breath. "I'll help you."  
"Sure?" Faer had a very strange look on her face, as if something had just dawned on her. She glanced at Dutchy with a look that said, "You're kidding."  
Brooky broke their mystic gaze and replied, "Yeah. He's my boy; I need to come." The trio reached the eighth floor and immediately headed to 8B. There was almost complete silence within. Dutchy opened the door quickly. He didn't care about knocking--if Spot had been hurt...  
But Spot was not hurt, as became evident the moment the door to Irish's apartment swung open. He was crumpled onto the bed, head in hands, shaking. Irish appeared to be trying to grind her skull into the wall. Behind him, Dutchy heard a thump. Spot had looked up--he and Brooklyn were locked in a gaze, both petrified. Brooky had given a soft umph and landed against the hall wall. SPOT: She looked terrified, hurt, unable to speak. I was half-clothed, covered down to my chest in... it hurt to think it... Irish's... cherry lipstick. I just stared at Brooky, unable to move. I wanted to die. Right then. It was the worst I'd ever been in my life.  
How could I have done that to her? How could I have confused what mattered with a city high, put it behind the one complaint--the only complaint--a dumb, selfish... Oh, Spot, you bastard.  
She had fallen back onto the wall. I wanted to kiss her, to tell her I was sorry--so sorry-- What was I talking about? Brooky, she'd never take me back. Oh, God. Because, I realized it now, it was like a harsh, blunt axe in my chest-- a life without Brooky was no life at all. What have I done? NARRATOR: Dutchy knew Irish had been streetwalking. He was perhaps the only one who knew--until now at least. But he hadn't known she would seduce Spot. He hadn't even known Spot could be seduced by anyone but Brooklyn-- unless Irish hadn't known it was him, and he hadn't known it was her. Of course, they would never touch each other if there had been proper lighting. That didn't excuse Spot's want of a prostitute--or her prostitution--but it did explain something. They would never betray Brooky. Oh, Lord, did she know that?  
Dutchy turned around to tell her, but as he was about to speak, Brooky slumped and fainted. He moved to catch her, but a pair of strong arms reached out before he could.  
Spot carried her to his chest, down the stairs, his head close to Brooklyn's. He soon disappeared beneath the floor, leaving Faer looking extremely shocked, Irish crying into the skirt of her dress, and Dutchy feeling more torn apart than ever before. SPOT: I carried her out the double doors, into the windy, starless night. I could feel wetness on her jacket. Tears... I had made her cry. A sharp pain pierced my stomach where my rapidly thrown-on shirt was still hanging open. I would take her home and go. I could smell her hair; it was like soap and newspaper...  
I didn't deserve the pleasure of being near her. The wind bristled my hair. I was cold everywhere.  
Several minutes later, I stood in the doorway of our apartment. I had laid her on the bed, covered her... I wanted to kiss her, one last kiss... I couldn't. She was perfect; exhausted and picturesque. I framed her face in my mind. Never let it go. Never let it go.  
I turned, tears rolling down my cheeks, and got to the top of the stairs.  
"SPOT!"  
She was framed in the doorway, looking at me. Just looking. I wanted her to scream, or throw things, to curse my existence, to slam the door in earnest. Instead, she just stared. "Wha-- what happened? Spot, where are you going?"  
I bowed my head so she wouldn't see me crying even harder. "Goodbye, Brooklyn. I love you."  
But before I could go she was clutching me and I was grasping her, we were interlocked.  
Her breath was more than I could stand on my neck. I kissed her; I would never let her go ever again. She kissed back. "I'm so sorry, Brooky, I'm so--"  
She laid a finger, traced my lips. They stopped stammering. My heart skipped every beat. There was utter silence.  
Pleading. "I love you, Spot. I love you." I held her until the sun rose. She fell asleep in my arms. 


End file.
